margot

Star Fish by Andrew Wyeth

Your subconscious directs you as you turn right, walk through the hallway and climb the second set of stairs on your right. You turn left and then right again. You’re not sure where your feet are taking you until you realize that the piece you're longing for is no longer where it should be. You look around you with worry. Surely they wouldn't have put it in storage, you think to yourself.  The security guard eyes your brisk walk as you anxiously move through the second floor gallery looking for the painting.  Filled with dread, you’ve almost given up hope when you see it across the hall, tucked in a corner. 

How rude of them to neglect you, you think to yourself. Just because someone was painted by a fancy name doesn't mean that they're any better, or that you should have to be hidden to make room for them.

Situating yourself in front of the piece, you relax as the sounds of people fade away making room for the the gentle lull of the ocean that pulls your eyes close.

I wipe the sleep away from my eyes as the room slowly comes into focus. The midmorning sun is streaming though the window—blinding me—as I sit up in bed. As the last drops of my dreams drain I am left within realities reach, and find myself enveloped by the elegance of our world. As I look around the room, the details that are painted throughout our lives captivate me—telling a story without ever saying a word. The whites of the walls whisper their true colors to me; letting me in on a secret that only those willing to open their eyes can hear. The sunlight rushes through the window, revealing its true depth, and its darkness within; shedding light on the shadows of its past, and its hope for the future. The two starfish which rest on the window pane, speak of a sentimental summer’s afternoon. Even the smudges on the window talk; telling the tale of the ocean’s dance whose fingers caress the seaside cabin, leaving their mark in salt.

Mesmerized by the simplistic beauty that surrounds me, time seems to stop. There is no pressing matter to deal with, no situation to settle, and no obligatory obligation. A sense of tranquility washes over me and I feel as if I am frozen in this moment—unable and unwilling to leave its serenity and place the weight of the world back on my shoulders. 

I have no concept of time as I stare out the window and watch the waves playing in the sunshine. Perhaps I have been here for only a few minutes, or maybe an hour or two, or perhaps even a few years—allowing the dust to settle and my body to grow old, as my mind stays young, refusing to acknowledge the things we like to call ‘responsibilities’ and instead relishing in the freedom of fulfillment.

After a short while, or perhaps a long while, a figure comes into my view. While I don’t recognize them, I am overwhelmed with the feeling of familiarity. Enchanted, I watch them as they take out a pair of binoculars, and gaze out across the sea. Except for the wind stroking their hair and pulling their shirt, they are perfectly still. The figure fascinates me, and I observe them as a mother might watch over her sleeping child, enthralled by the possibilities of their dreams. Time passes, and when they lower their binoculars to polish the lenses, my trance is finally broken and I blush, as if caught doing something I know I shouldn't be. By now the ocean has become enflamed by the sun, and as I continue to watch my new friend watch the ocean, I cant help but feel as if I am being watched as well. 

Engrossed in its brushstrokes, you feel a pang of sadness when it’s time to leave. You enjoy the company of your new friend, and even though your legs have fallen asleep from sitting on the floor, and your back is aching from not having enough support, you wish that you could stay—lost in a hidden world where only those who live with their eyes open can know. Sighing, you stand up and steady yourself on the banister, taking one last look at Star Fish by Andrew Wyeth before you acknowledge reality once more.